I was sober now.
The reality of the last hour sank in, and the thought of coming this far, just to have it crushed by this chain of fucked up events, was a major buzzkill for sure.
Suddenly, we were way out of our element. This was not the Cannery or Exit In on a Saturday night.
Jack Blades looked at me funny, then said, "Didn't you come out and interview Gillis for some magazine the last time Night Ranger was here? A couple years ago, maybe?"
I'd forgotten about that. Gus set me up to come backstage at a Night Ranger show a few years before, to interview Brad Gillis for the Metro Magazine, a cool local rock mag.
It was like: 'Local Guitar Dude interviews the guy who took Randy Rhoads' place in Ozzy's band,' or something like that. Jack was super skeptical of me back then too, he was like the backstage Gestapo, kind of like he was now. I get it, after years of touring, you kind of get tired of the bullshit and just want a laid back vibe without any weirdos having access to the area. You would be surprised at the type of shit crazy fans will do. I had a guy backstage try to steal one of Peter Frampton's pedals when I was his guitar tech in 2003, I wanted to kill that asshole.
Blades had been around a long time. He was all over everything that was going on at venues he played, and backstage, you could tell. He was cool, but he didn't want no funny business.
Anyway, he had me checked out, I got cleared, did the interview, and it actually turned out to be really cool. Gillis was a super sweet guy, by the way.
"Oh yeah, that was me!" I said, "I forgot about that. Are you still in touch with Brad?"
"Absolutely, we are still buds," he said, his demeanor softening. "Shit man, so you guys must be pretty good, huh? I heard a couple of the local guys talking about you. Look, it seems to be clearing up, let's see how soundcheck goes, and what our time looks like, we will see what we can do, boys."
That was encouraging.
"But, I'm not making any promises!"
Uh, that wasn't.
We headed on to the tricked out dressing room that was part of the contest prize.
It was awesome!
There was a full bar, all kinds of food, video games, big TV with a feed on it, the works.
I thought about making a screwdriver, but there was other shit to deal with here. I wanted to know if we were gonna play. I mean, I'm was not there to play video games.
Robert looked at me and said, "Go tell your guys with the van and trailer to be ready. As soon as that box truck pulls out, y'all back in and get your gear on the deck. I'm going to go to work on this."
Thank God for Bobby Eva, man.
For the love of all things holy, the rain stopped, and the sun started peeking through the clouds.
I thanked God, Jesus, and the ghost of Randy Rhoads.
Damn Yankees started sound checking. I don't remember what time it was, or how late it was running, but it was late. I could hear Nugent's guitar reverberating off the hill, he was loud as fuck. We had still not seen Ted and were wondering where he had been.
I went down to the dock to make sure the guys knew what to do and grabbed my guitar. Everywhere I walked, crew guys were giving me the stink eye. I felt totally out of place. Remember me telling you what it's like during the set change between bands at a club? This was like that, except a hundred times bigger and gnarlier.
Bigger place, bigger gear, bigger cables, bigger stage, bigger stress, bigger sweaty asses, bigger noise, bigger trucks, big... gnarly... everything. The only difference was everything was well lit, a stark reminder of where I was and what the fuck was going on. I was a nervous wreck.
I'm cutting through a hallway and bump into some tech, "HEY! Watch it rockstar!" he said, mocking me.
I got back to the dressing room, unpacked the Kramer, strapped it on, and started warming up.
"Any sign of Bobby?" I asked the guys.
"Nope!"
Can You Take Me Hiiiiiiigh Enough!... echoed through the empty amphitheater.
Fans were lining up outside in the humid mist after the storm.
Then, it was quiet. Minutes passed. We chatted nervously while I ran scales up and down the neck of the white star body guitar.
Jamie said, "Man, what the fuck? Are we gonna get cheesed?"
Just then, Bobby burst into the room.
"Okay, guys, get over to the stage and get your guys to start setting up your stuff in front of Damn Yankees. And guys? Do it fast, okay?" He said, smiling.
We all looked at each other, then looked at Bobby.
"Fuck, yes!" we said in unison. I wanted to kiss him!
My heart started pounding as I slapped the Kramer back in the case, (fresh strings,) and pulled the duct tape tight, closing it.
You walk through a couple of tight corridors to get from the room where we were, to the upstage entrance of the main stage at Starwood. We split up, Jamie and Easlo to stage left, me and Paulie to stage right. It's weird, you come out of there, and it's like you were in a cave, and suddenly you are thrust out on a cliff, with a panoramic view of the ocean and mountains. Instead of ocean and mountains though, it's a sea of chairs with hundreds of people streaming in, and a hillside going up a hundred yards with people rushing to get their spot. The sun glowed over the hill in it's full glory now, still a good forty-five minutes until sunset, and the sky was a mix of pink and purple in the distance. Whoa! Fucking cool.
I was standing stage right, our guys were already slamming our stuff, downstage. The main crew guys were looking very agitated.
As we had been told, they were not happy. When a big show is running behind schedule, you might miss dinner, you may not get your pre-show chill time, everything gets stressed. The last thing you want is some unknown band on your stage.
They were yelling at our guys, huffing, and puffing.
"Don't put that there, dummy!"
"No DI on that piece of shit?"
"Don't touch the mics! We will place them when you're done!"
Man, crusty old sound dudes. I get it, I am one now.
"Don't worry about those guys, they're just tired. They are good dudes."
It was Tommy Shaw. He and Jack came out from behind their amps after handing off their guitars. The drummer, Michael Cartellone, and Paulie were behind them, talking.
"The sun came out guys, the crowd is showing up, maybe you're not bad luck." Jack said, "You've got thirty minutes, knock 'em dead... We'll see you after!"
I'm sure I looked like an idiot, standing there with a mile-wide smile on my face.
"Thanks, you guys! Really!"
"No problem, break a leg, boys!" Tommy said, and they walked away.
It dawned on me then that this whole contest deal was their thing, I don't think Bad Company really had anything to do with it. These guys decided at some point that we were in. I don't know what else went on behind the scenes, but I did know one thing...
I was ready to rock!
But, then...
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! You guys are NOT bringing that thing on my stage!" Some fanny pack wearing, red-faced, Fred Flintstone looking dude was yelling at our guys.
The guys were just about to unfold the legs on Paulie's badass drum risers, then they froze.
Holy fuck, what now?
Michael Cartellone was still talking to Paulie, and he turned and shouted, "It's cool, man, set 'em up, guys."
Fred Flintstone pleaded, "Dude, we will have to move the front part of your riser off to make that thing fit."
Michael smiled and said, "Then, move it."
Fuck yes, Cartellone. All of a sudden, these Damn Yankee dudes were cool as fuck.
He and Paulie did the bro hug, and Catrellone took off, backstage.
He wasn't gonna make Paulie play on the floor, class move.
Fred turned and gave me the look of death... what did I do?
Then, he shouted, "Do it, boys! Let's get this stage set!" He huffed off, shouting, "FIFTEEN MINUTES!"
Shit, fifteen minutes? That was a lifetime, we could set up and tear down twice in fifteen. We were golden. My shit was already set up. I had two Marshall 4x12 cabs and two 100 watt Marshall JCM 800 heads. No pedals, no wireless, just a LONG, kick-ass, cable. One of the JCM's was a backup, so I just ran both cabs mono side by side. Their tech dudes could not believe I didn't have a pedalboard. I wasn't about having any effects back then, and it wasn't about money. I was just into the straight Marshall amp sound. I was that way for years. John Rich, my dear friend, lighting tech, and metal aficionado, always gave me shit about it.
I did not care.
"Just a cable, baby, that's all I need! It's all in the fingers, bitch!"
I grabbed my guitar, and stood off stage right, warming up. I was starting to sweat.
Paulie was already behind the kit adjusting shit, while the crew guys started to mic them up. I saw Jamie on the other side, he gave me the thumbs up, with a big ass grin. I love that boy, he was so excited!
One of the sound dudes came up to me and said, "We need to mic up your amps, where's your front of house guy? Who's running sound for you, dudes?"
"Front of wha...Huh? I mean, we thought you guys were covering it." I said, suddenly wondering what the fuck else was going to happen.
"Uh, no," he said, with a smart ass sneer, "We 'guys' aren't 'covering' it, what the fuck?" He looked like he was gonna go get Fred Flintstone. Shit.
Out of fucking nowhere, our buddy, John Mills, walked up to us. John had worked with us in the studio a few times, and we knew him from other gigs and shit around town. He just happened to be on the local crew that night, helping out in monitor world. He was also a world-class, badass engineer.
"I'll do front of house for these guys," he said and walked over to start placing mics on my cabs. He placed them kind of far away, and I was about to say something. He just put his finger to his lips, like...shhhhhh. The smart ass guy was looking around, still wondering if he should go get Fred, and then John (Yoda) looked at him and said, "Don't worry, I've got this."
He then looked over at the other guy he was working with and said, "You cool if I do this? I'll run back up here for the rest of the show after their set."
"Be my guest!" The other guy said. Hell yes, for the other guy! I love the other guy!
After John got the mics placed, and did a quick walk around, he came back over to me and said, "Okay, I'm running out to front of house, listen for my calls through the talkback. I'm gonna line check everything real quick starting with drums, then bass, then you. We have to move fast, so be ready, it's throw, and go!" He turned to walk away.
"We will," I said gratefully, "Thanks, John!"
He turned back, then came up in my ear, "Crank the fuck out of it, and kick these fucking guys asses," he whispered, looking around at the crew guys, "You've got this." He said with a wink.
With that, he was off in a dash, running out to the main console about fifty yards out in the middle of the crowd, which was pouring in by then.
I grabbed my badass cable and walked out to my amps. I had been on a couple of big stages before, but there was something about your hometown concert venue. I had seen Skynyrd here! Rush! Van Halen! I mean, come on, this is what every local band dreams about.
There was still a lot of commotion going on, Paulie was bending over behind his massive, double bass Pearl kit, adjusting shit. Easlo was stage left with Woody, like a mile away, the crew dudes were scurrying around placing monitors, I took a deep breath. I flipped the switch on the main Marshall. I plugged in the cable and tossed it out across the stage to uncoil it. I didn't care if any of those fuckers liked it or not, then I pulled my guitar off, leaned it against the amp (guitar stands were for pussies), and I whipped off my tank top, setting it on the amp, as a sweat towel: bike shorts, wrestling shoes, headband. Stage show, engaged.
Stage right was covered, goddamnit.
I walked out, kneeled down, and grabbed the cable, then locked it in, under the strap. I looked out, still kneeling, and saw that the hill was getting crowded, the shed was about half full, people were streaming in, yelling and screaming, I heard my name a few times...
"Mikeeeey!"
"MIKE! YO!"
"SIMMMMONNNNZZZZ!"
I couldn't see who anybody was, it was a big, beautiful blur.
I turned and walked back to the amps, heart-pounding, hit standby, and bumped the gain to ten.
I grabbed a trusty Fender Extra Heavy pick and did a little check.
KUNK! BAMMP - BAMMP! It echoed up the hill. It wasn't even in the PA yet, but the crowd let out a healthy roar.
Whoa, fucking awesome.
John's voice came over the monitors, loud as hell. "Okay, guys, quick line check, main bass drum."
Paulie, couldn't resist, he did a super fast double bass and snare drum lick that would have made Neil Peart proud. It made every crusty crew member turn and stare, eyes wide.
"YES!" I yelled, smiling.
The sound thundered through the valley.
Take that! Fuckers. Did you think we were some kind of hacks? If so, then you were sorely mistaken. We ain't Joe Shmo cover band, about to play "Mustang Sally."
John's voice boomed through the monitors, chuckling, "I could have taken one at a time, but that'll work, next, toms!"
While they quickly checked the rest of the drums and then bass, I took another minute to soak it all in.
It was hot, but a gentle breeze started blowing in from stage left, it felt good on the sweat that was beginning to stream down my face. The sun was setting on what was turning into a perfect night for an outdoor show. The crowd was filling out nicely, even though many were still flowing in.
People were waving, giving the horns and thumbs up, yelling, and screaming.
Here we were... Damn.
My hair was blowing in my face, I turned my back to the crowd, and tried to focus.
Right then, my amp died!
(Nah, just kidding.)
A girl came over and put a couple of waters by my amp, then said, "Have a great show!"
My adrenaline was really pumping now, I didn't know how grateful I would be for those waters.
John called out, "Guitar!"
My hands were shaking, I rolled the volume up, and...
BYEEEEEOOOOOOWWWWW-BUUUUUWWWWWWIIIIIIPPP!
Bar drop from hell! The tubes glowed orange in the Marshall.
CHUNG, GUNG, BHAAAMP! BHAAAAMP!
Power chords! Oh my God, that felt good!
The crowd roared! Holy shit!
If you have never played some metal guitar through a real PA, I highly suggest it.
Hearing your shit thrown out over of a massive sound system, onto a Tennessee hillside, is so awesome.
I gave them a quick blast of a Highway Star type, fast double picking lead...
BIDDLY BIDDLY BIDDLY FLLLLLLEEE, WHIDDLY WHIDDLY WHIDDLY YEEEEOOOORRRRWWW... BAMMMP!
I slapped a little whammy lick, and ended on a big E chord chunk, confidently.
A couple of the crew guys were like, "Okay, damn!" Nodding their heads.
My shit sounded great out there. The big time monitors were crisp, clear, and loud. We were so used to playing on shitty sound systems, this was going to be fun.
"I'm good," John said, from front of house.
I walked behind my amps and checked the setlist, my spare picks, and scanned my rig, to make sure that all my shit was tight.
A radio disc jockey guy was standing close to me, stage right, with a few other people.
He was the announcer. He looked at me with the "Are you ready?" face.
I walked over to Paulie, and climbed on the riser next to him,
"You ready, baby?" I asked.
He smiled, still looking over his drums, and said,
"Nah, let's get the fuck outta here."
I glanced over at Easlo and Woody, Easlo yelled, "Let's rock, boys!"
I gave radio dude the thumbs up, and he walked to out the primary mic, downstage, center.
There was a considerable crowd now, and they were ready. The rain was gone, it was showtime.
He started talking his DJ spiel about the Battle of the Bands and WWTF radio, blah blah blah...
"Paulie," I whispered, "Give me a quick hit off your Turkey and Seven."
He handed it over, I took a swig, did the shake, made a face, "Aggggg! How do you drink that shit?" I handed it back to him, and he tossed it aside right as the dude said...
"Nashville's own, SIMMONZ!"
It wasn't fully dark yet, but the stage lights glared bright as Paulie did the opening drum fill to Bangin' with the Boys.
I did my best Eddie Van Halen jump off the drum riser, landed right on the downbeat, then ran right to the front edge of the stage, hair flying, guitar thundering through the sound system, echoing off the hill. The opening bass and drum punches of Bangin build as the guitar establishes the main riff for the first twenty or thirty seconds. So, I'm out there... establishing!
This, my friends, is the essence of metal.
The crowd was percolating.
Next, Paulie and Jamie kick in the groove, BAM!
The crowd roars! Goddamn.
I fade back, a little to the left, grooving hard, then Easlo comes up beside me and proceeds to THROW, THE FUCK, DOWN!
You can be the best metal band in the world, but if your singer ain't killer, it's just bullshit.
I love all of the greats, Dio, Halford, Dickenson, you name it, but in my book, Cash Easlo is the baddest of them all, to this day.
Hearing his voice echoing through the night, I laughed!
It doesn't get any better than this.
Dude.
We totally rocked it.
Jamie and I stalked each side of the stage, slinging hair and sweat, pounding low-end thunder, and, you guessed it...
Burning leads from hell. (My favorite Mike Martin quote.)
Easlo stood the middle ground and led the charge, like a silver throated general, always advancing, never retreating. He sang his ass off. As I said, dude is one of the best vocalists to ever take a stage.
Paulie laid down the groove, like only he can, shocking you with his lightning speed, precision punches, and amazing fills out of nowhere, leaving mouths agape in wonder.
There was a reason Jim Dandy called him "The Fastest Feet Alive!"
We kicked ass.
We took names.
It was another one of our best sets, ever.
All of the sweaty practices in the old Tom T Hall house had paid off.
I wish I could give you more of a play by play of the set, but it was such a blur.
I mean, I know we played thirty minutes, but it felt like two minutes!
After every song, the crowd roared its approval.
As each song ticked off, and the crowd response was more and more positive... the Damn Yankees crew dudes got cooler and cooler. They were smiling and rocking along.
I DO remember that.
I caught a glimpse of the Yankee band dudes at side stage a couple of times, too.
They were totally cheering us on!
I even saw the man, Ted Nugent, check us out briefly, smiling and nodding.
I played with every fiber of my being and left it all on the stage. Thank God that the girl left the water. I would run and grab it between songs like some guy stranded in the desert for a month.
By the time we hit the last power chord of Open Season, I felt like my legs were going to give out. Much of the crowd rose to their feet. The applause was massive.
And then, it was over.
We roll off stage to a bunch of cheers, pats on the back, and compliments as we head back.
"Holy shit, dudes!"
"Awesome show, guys, damn!"
I saw the main crew guys happily helping our dudes tear down, as I walked off.
When I shot down the stage right corridor with my guitar, sweat pouring off me, euphoric, I see Jack Blades, decked out in his stage gear.
He points his finger, and is waving it at me like a school teacher, "You guys! You fuckin' guys! I had no idea... Fucking, Awesome!"
He grabbed my hand and gave me the bro shake.
"Go chill! Have a good time, you deserve it! Killer set, man. You guys are gonna make us have to work! We will hang after the show."
Wow, that was a cool thing to say. I know he was probably just being nice, but we really did just kick some major ass.
What a rush!
I had to go a long way around to get to our room from stage right. Suddenly, I felt right at home walking through the place, not intimidated at all.
Simmonz had just gotten ALL UP IN, Starwood Amphitheater. It felt so good.
I arrived at our dressing room for a chaotic celebration, already in full swing.
"MIKEEEEE! Baby! YASSSSS!" Jamie came over and hugged me, then gave me a big 'ole kiss on the cheek. He was already getting lit! Haha!
"You killed it, mayyyunnn!"
"We all did," I yelled, "YES! It's time for a drrrrriiiinnnnk! We did it, boys!"
"FUCK YEAH!" Everyone yelled.
There were quite a few people there. I grabbed Paulie's ass, and then his hair, and pulled him in for a brother kiss. He and Easlo were talking to some girls.
"You are a badass, Paul Simmons," I said in a robot voice.
"So are you, Mike Simmons." He replied in robot... don't ask.
I walked over to Easlo.
"Dude, you are the baddest fucking singer there is! You are my hero, Ease!
You had them in the palm of your hand!"
"Mikey," He said, "You boys make it easy for me. I fucking love this band."
"Love you, brother," I said, as we commenced to jump in the pile.
Many screwdrivers were consumed.
So, I'm writing this almost thirty years later. It's hard to believe it's been that long ago. I know I have left out some details as far as people involved at the time, and maybe some other minor stuff. I mean, a bunch of shit probably went down that I never knew about, too. I'm doing the best I can with the memory I have today, so this is close enough for rock-n-roll. I'd say it's about as accurate as the tuners we had back then, maybe off by a cent or two.
I'm just having fun writing it down.
Also, I was not a very self-aware person in those days (duh,) so many of these memories are filtered through whatever emotional immaturity I had back then. I could get very self-obsessed at times, and like most guitar players I know, we live with this gnarly, crushing self-doubt, worried that we actually really suck, so we cover it in false bravado.
Such is the life of a metal guitar player.
Wow, buzzkill! I know, Hahahaha!
But this has been a fun one. It's been a very welcome distraction in these crazy days.
We really did have some great times.
This is just one of many.
There were tough times to come.
After their set, the Damn Yankees guys let us come and hang out with them. It was sweet!
It was funny, too, Jack, Tommy, and Michael had this tiny dressing room, and they didn't care. They were just having a good time, being out on tour, and having a hit record. They were really laid back. I felt like they were relieved that we didn't suck, I think that was what some of the worries had been. I got wind that some of the contest winners from other cities we not up to the task.
Damn Yankees show was killer, by the way, they totally blew the roof off!
We got drunk and took some pictures.
Ted, on the other hand, had this HUGE dressing room! He had all of his hunting shit in there. He and Easlo were talking hunting, he was showing us all these pictures of his ranch, elk, deer, girls, more girls, everything. He was super cool to us, and he talked a mile a minute. I don't remember a word he said except...
"You are some badass, motherfuckers."
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